


Heat Wave

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Even in London, Gen, M/M, heat wave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I do not LIKE heat waves. I do not. I do not.</p><p>And according to the news, even London is heading into a heat wave.<br/>And I do not believe Mycroft would like heat waves either.<br/>Nor do the British seem generally well-prepared to deal with rare bouts of tropical weather.</p><p>So. They're havin' a heat wave. And Mycroft is miserable. But he will not stay that way.</p><p>This is erotic without ever being graphic, and is mainly erotic because relief from heat is just that insanely good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Wave

The heat wave moved in, heavy and dank, all sunlight and steam and sticky, sweaty afternoons and evenings.

Mycroft hated it—hated it so intensely his misery challenged the heat wave itself. This was England. London. His beloved, green, cool land, blessed with drizzle and fog and chill. For London to be hot, even in August, was just wrong.

Mycroft wasn’t prepared for it. For that matter, MI6 wasn’t prepared for it. His office had heaters—but no air conditioning. The shadowed room seldom got warm enough to justify even the stocky, retro little desk fan he’d pulled out. Now the fan spun frantically, barely stirring the muggy air.

Mycroft was guzzling iced water like a bloody American. He was dreaming of beer kept in cold refrigerated bottles. He’d stripped off his jacket, in desperation, and was giving serious consideration to sloughing off his weskit, too. His feet steamed in hand-made brogues, the thin silk of his socks insufficient to sop up the moisture.

He closed his eyes and told himself the rest of London had it worse. Sherlock for example, in the sweltering rooms of Baker Street.

But Sherlock could open his windows.

John, then, in his clinic? No. John’s clinic did have air conditioning, as part of the ventilation system…

Samuels, who drove Mycroft’s assigned jaguar saloon, had air conditioning.

Anthea didn’t have air conditioning, he reminded himself. Then he recalled the light cotton dress she’d chosen for the day, sleeveless and breezy. A whine escaped him.

Lestrade, he thought, reaching for comfort. Lestrade would either be out in the scorching sun, in some reeking alley by a skip fermenting in the sun, or he’d be in the Met offices, with no more air conditioning than Mycroft had.

It almost worked, until he remembered that Lestrade liked heat—strong sunlight, simmering summer temperatures.

Mycroft gave up. Enough was enough. He touched the intercom link to Anthea’s desk.

“I’m going home,” he said. “I may stay home until the heat passes. If the temperature hits 75F and I’m not back, send someone to check I didn’t die of heat stroke.”

Anthea agreed, a chuckle barely contained behind her calm, prim tones. She smiled as Mycroft exited his office.

“Not taking your jacket, sir?”

He gave her the evil eyeball. Even the touch of the wool on his fingers was too much. “Tell Samuels to have the air conditioner running,” he growled, and headed for the lift. His shirt clung to his back, his shoulders, his forearms. His tie felt like a pashmina wrap clinging to his neck. He nearly raced out of MI6 headquarters, heading for the limo, diving into the shadowed interior as Samuels held the door open.

The drive over was at least a start, he thought. He leaned over the air conditioner outlet, panting cold air, praying his core body temperature was falling.

He had no air conditioner at home, either. But he did have the shady, deep back balcony, with broad French windows he could open to let the air through. And there was the bathroom. And of course cold beer and wine, and ice—gallons of ice.

On arrival he headed for the lift at speed. Once up, he stumbled frantically into his flat, aiming for the balcony—only to realize the windows were already open. The heavy drapes were pulled back, and the sheer curtains billowed, bellies full of breeze, moving in the shadows of the flat.

“Thought you’d want to come home early,” a soft voice said.

Mycroft found Lestrade’s form in the dim kitchen. “You’re home…” he said, blankly.

“Nice deducing,” Lestrade chuckled.

“But you like heat,” Mycroft said. “I was sure you’d be out reveling in it.”

“You hate it, though,” Lestrade said. “Here—gin and tonic to start. Bitter and cold as a witch’s tit. It’ll give you ice cream headache if you’re not careful.” He pushed a tall pitcher toward Mycroft. Condensed water poured down the sides of the container, pooling at the base. There was a tall glass set ready, already filled with ice cubes.

Mycroft’s hands shook as he poured himself a glass. He closed his eyes and drew the drink in—acrid, harsh, fizzy enough to scour every thick, gummy trace of goo off his tongue. He swallowed, took another draft, swallowed again, and sighed in relief so sweet it almost hurt.

“Thank God,” he murmured. “How did you know?”

Lestrade chuckled softly. “I know you, love. Now, let’s get you out of that suit. One of these days you’re going to realize that even tropical suiting isn’t cool enough for a bad spell." He stood, carrying a tall glass of his own with him, and stood in front of Mycroft. He stroked one hand over Mycroft’s sweaty forehead. “Poor lad,” he said, softly. “You’re really not made for heat, are you?”

Mycroft shook his head, mute, trapped between the lingering misery of the heat wave and the pleasure of Lestrade’s caress. “You, though…”

“Bit of Mediterranean blood, I figure,” Lestrade said. “Provencal grandmother. Maybe some Spanish ancestors come to the West Country.” His hands moved cleverly over the buttons of Mycroft’s weskit. He peeled it off, and tossed it cavalierly onto a spare chair. Mycroft didn’t even whimper his concern for good clothes treated too casually. The light breeze from the balcony swept gently over his dress shirt, cooling it, and he sighed his gratitude, even as Lestrade began unknotting his tie.

“I need something to wear,” Mycroft murmured. “The windows are open.”

“We’re not staying here long,” Lestrade murmured back. Once he had Mycroft’s shirt off, he whispered, “Come on—bring the pitcher and glasses.”

“Where?”

“That bloody great bathroom,” Lestrade chuckled. “Come on—I’ve got it all set.”

All set proved to mean that the room was entirely dark, but for scattered glow-sticks. Mycroft deduced Lestrade had salvaged the sticks from Met emergency supplies. The bathroom was dark, though, and cool, with not one, but two great fans running,

“Come on, love,” Lestrade said, “Let’s get you the rest of the way out of that sweat suit.”

His fingers were clever and quick. Soon Mycroft stood naked in the darkened room, feeling the air rush over his damp, clammy skin. He could just make out Lestrade shimmying out of his own clothing.

“Come on—have a bit more gin and tonic, then into the shower with you,” Lestrade said, already turning on the shower stream. “Be ready. It’s cold.”

Mycroft scowled, prepared to complain—he didn’t like cold showers.

Today, though…

Today, the thought of a cold shower was blissful.

Lestrade had chosen the bathtub, rather than the shower stall. The tub was one of Mycroft’s more extreme luxuries—deep, and wide, more a pool or a Jacuzzi than a mere tub. “Come on in,” Lestrade said. “We’ll start in the shower, and end in the tub. Cool you right down…”

Mycroft risked slipping one hand into the drumming flow of water. It was cold. Too cold…

“Don’t be chicken,” Lestrade said. “It’s like swimming in the ocean—first plunge is bad, then it’s bliss. Come on, love. Give it a try.”

Mycroft gulped down the remainder of his first gin and tonic, poured another, put the glass on a shelf in reach of the tub, then stepped gingerly in, gasping in shocked dismay. “Bugger! That’s cold!” He pulled in on himself, shivering.

“Come on—head under the spray,” Lestrade said. “Got to cool you down, love. You’re still simmering.”

Mycroft reluctantly allowed his lover to draw him under the cold water bucketing down out of the shower head. More cold water jetted from the sides, washing down his flanks. He could feel his balls tighten, his cock shrink, his nipples harden in the play of cold water.

“Bloody hell,” he squeaked.

“Shhhh,” Lestrade said. “Close your eyes, lover. Shampoo…”

Mycroft crimped his eyes shut just in time as Lestrade squeezed a splooge of shampoo onto his thinning hair. Then Lestrade’s skilled, strong fingers raked through short locks, drawing the shower water behind them, sudsing the shampoo quickly and rinsing just as quickly.

It felt good, Mycroft thought, gasping as his body made the adjustment to the cold water. Oh, God, it felt good… Not just the water, though the cold water had gone from shock to awe in seconds. It was all combining—the firm massaging touch of Lestrade’s hands, the trickle and splash of the water washing away the shampoo, the scent of grapefruit and rosemary and mint. The stunned retraction of his genitals was reversing, as his body accepted the chill.

“Oh…”  He couldn’t think of more to say.

Mycroft was thought and abstraction. He was data and deduction. This, though—this was pure feeling and sensation, and he was overwhelmed by it. He could still taste the glorious bitter cold of the gin and tonic, smell the soap, feel as Lestrade expanded his efforts from mere shampoo to full-body gel…

“Oh, God…”

Lestrade chuckled—a sound blending tenderness and wicked mischief. “Like that?”

“Uh…”

He felt clean. He hadn’t felt clean all day. He felt cool—a coolness sinking deeper by the second. He felt alive, when all day long he’d felt like he was dying in excruciating slow motion.

“Here—I can do you,” he said, and was pleased when Lestrade merely laughed, and handed him the body gel.

He loved the feel of his lover, he thought, as he sleeked the gel over Lestrade’s solid muscles, firm bones. He had skin that begged to be stroked, and he’d kept fit. His back and shoulders were solid, his bum high and round, his thighs strong.

Now that he was cooler, Mycroft could lean close, press kisses into the curve of Lestrade’s neck and shoulder, feeling the current of water pour around his lips, feeling the heat of skin under the chill of the flow. The contrast was seductive. He mouthed down Lestrade’s chest, found his nipples, browsed contentedly as his fingers traced the seaweed mat of chest hair flattened by the racing water.

“Clean enough to close the drain?” Lestrade murmured.

Mycroft didn’t bother answering—didn’t bother leaning over. He reached back with clever toes and closed the drain, soon feeling the cold water rise up over his instep and his ankles.

The two men made lazy love in the water, as the shower pounded down and the tub filled. When it was half-full, they lay together, touching, dreaming in the blessed cold.

“You had this planned,” Mycroft murmured, amazed at how much capacity he had for joy now that he wasn’t battling the heat.

Lestrade chuckled. “Seemed like an idea,” he said. “Got cold chicken and frozen grapes and sorbet for dinner after, too. All cold.”

Mycroft crooned appreciation, then said, “I don’t know if I’m up for shagging, yet….still recovering my energy.” His voice was apologetic. “Maybe later tonight?”

“No rush,” Lestrade said. He sighed. “I mean—shagging is good. I like shagging. But I have to tell you, this tub and shower are almost better than sex. Even really good sex.”

Mycroft, considering the rainfall trickle of cold water over his skin, the rising tide of chill filling the tub and cradling his formerly miserable body, could only agree.

They spent the next hour in the tub and shower, balancing the shower-fall with the drain. Then they stood naked in the breeze from the fans, sipping more cold gin and tonic, and laving each other with icy splashes of light cologne and soothing clouds of talc. Only then did they slip into air-light pajama trousers and go retrieve the icy chicken and grapes and take their meal out to the balcony.

The sun was still too high, but they sat far back in the shade of the overhang. The wind blew down the Thames valley—too warm, but no longer a misery now that Mycroft was cool and properly dressed, with a range of ways to cope at hand. He stripped long strands of chicken and ate them wrapped in naan, with mint-coriander chutney and raita. He sucked the icy grapes, tongue rolling them against his palate until he had to stop to avoid pain. Later, he lapped sorbet off a spoon.

He and Lestrade said little…but Mycroft marveled at how aware he was of the other man’s presence.

“You saved my life,” he said, softly.

“That’s…whossit—hyperbole,” Lestrade scoffed.

“Not entirely,” Mycroft said. “I can’t tell you how awful I felt when I came in.”

Lestrade grunted softly, then said, “I could see it. Sorry it takes you like that, love.”

Mycroft considered. “I’m not,” he said. “Not if I can recover this way every time.” He met his lover’s eyes. “This was heaven.”

Lestrade smiled, suddenly bashful…unused to praise, and words of appreciation. He cleared his throat. “Glad to oblige,” he said, gruffly.

Mycroft stroked his toes over Lestrade’s bare instep. He smiled. “Can I get you something from the fridge?” he said.

Lestrade met his eyes, smiling. “Got some cold bitter in there,” he said. “I could stand a bo’le.” He let the faint touch of Cockney steal away the “t” sound, replacing it with a solid Estuary glottal stop he seldom permitted himself in his professional mode.

Mycroft smiled, feeling joy rise up like pigeons taking flight around St. Paul’s. “Gladly,” he said, and leaned down, dropping a kiss on Lestrade’s upturned mouth, deepening it—then fading away to retrieve the beer.

The flat was cool, he thought, and dark. The fans were running. The bed was stripped down to the lightest of sheets.

It was a good night. He had good company—and with a lover like Lestrade…

He might even learn to love a heat wave.


End file.
